


Crumpled Papers

by KathSilver



Series: Goodbye, Mate [1]
Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: 11!Verse, Angst, Bring tissues, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, I swear it, Love, M/M, Misery, Newt writes a letter, SO SAD, The Death Cure Spoilers, This Is Sad, he writes a lot of them actually, i fix nothing, saying goodbye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 17:28:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13885635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KathSilver/pseuds/KathSilver
Summary: When Newt discovers he has the Flare, he has a long road to battle within himself before he goes. The hardest of which is deciding how to say goodbye.**Prequel to Burned Pages





	Crumpled Papers

**Author's Note:**

> This is the prequel to Burned Pages that I decided the story needed, based on recommendations from others. It's just as sad, just as heartbreaking, as it's sequel. But it's beautiful, just like they were.

Something wasn’t right with him, he knew that. He’d known it since the moment he’d tumbled from the car in that damned tunnel. It had felt like a pinch, something small, and at the time he’d thought that he scraped his forearm on the broken glass, but it had been days while they walked the edges of this bloody labyrinth, trying to get into the Last City, and the pain had only gotten worse.

Newt couldn’t make himself look.

He kept telling himself that it would go away, eventually. When the others asked him what was wrong, he played it off. Said he was workin’ on the buggin’ puzzle like the rest of them. He ignored the chills that raised pebbles on his skin, ignored the fever that would come after. They didn’t have time for him to be sick, he’d thought. He remembered Winston, the way that infection from his wounds had spread so quickly, and that’s what Newt had thought this was. That he’d cut his arm on dirty, broken glass and because they’d been more worried about escaping then checking for injuries, it had gotten infected. But it was only his arm, they could deal with it later, right?

Newt worked to keep himself calm, he knew that he wouldn’t have too much time on his own, knew that Brenda and Jorge were about, the area of the labyrinth they were mapping was quite near to his, but he couldn’t wait anymore. He had to know how bad the damage was.

Had to be sure.

So Newt worked it so he was alone for as long as he could manage and rolled up his sleeve to inspect his injury. But it wasn’t an injury. This wasn’t like Winston, who might have been fine if they’d been able to clean and dress his wound properly. This wasn’t the same thing at all. This was something out of nightmares, and Newt was now living it.

Newt stared at the blacked veins climbing his arm like vines, and the choked keening whine that escaped his mouth sounded like it came from a wounded animal, not him. Gasping, panting, he rolled his sleeve back down his arm and covered his mouth to keep any more sound from escaping. Tears welled into his eyes and through the damning silence inside his head only one thought made it through clearly:

'But, I want to _live_.'

 

 

It wasn’t fair. They were all supposed to be immune, so how could this be happening? Was this some kind of joke? Just another part of their experiment? Were _any_ of them truly immune? It’s not like Newt had been bitten. There wasn’t a single scratch anywhere on him. He’d checked, in his initial panic. His initial rage. There was nothing, nothing but the small spiderweb of veins that grew with each and every day.

Stress, they said. Stress was what made it grow, so if he was able to keep himself calm then maybe he could make it take long enough that he could do what needed to be done. He could make it to Minho, repay him the favor that Minho once gave him, before he passed.

And oh, was it a favor. Newt had gone back and forth about it in his head so many times- if Minho had just left him there to die it would have been quicker than this slow torture. This prolonged battle for control within his own mind. He wouldn’t have had to watch his friends die, wouldn’t have known how truly destroyed the world was, he would have died a boy in the Glade who’d felt trapped and alone. Wouldn’t that have been better?

Newt’s gaze shifted from the sky above to the man who sat beside him, their legs casually touching, warm and quiet in the night. Next to Thomas, Newt was almost calm. He could pretend that they were going to be okay, that once they rescued Minho from the hell he’d been living for the past six months Newt and Thomas would have time for everything promised in every glance, every touch.

If Minho had let him die in the Maze that day, Newt would never have met Tommy.

He wouldn’t have known what it was like to be completely, wholly, understood by another person. What it was like to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they had your back and always would.  How the weight of another person’s palm in your hand could be an anchor and a lifeline, or how a glance could make your heartbeat nearly fly out of your chest.

Newt wouldn’t have met Tommy, and he wouldn’t have known what it was like to be in love.

So Newt didn’t just owe Minho the favor of saving him back, he owed Minho the universe and everything that came with it. He owed Minho the chance to find what he found in Thomas—the chance to have the time to act on it.

 

 

Every night when they sat by themselves at the fire, long after the others had gone to sleep as had become their tradition, Newt argued with himself. He should tell Thomas, he knew that he should, should tell him a number of things. But he couldn’t. How could he tell Thomas that he loved him, when he was about to die? How could he tell Thomas he was about to die, when he loved him? And so he sat in silence and took his time while he still had it.

He let himself _look_ and commit every detail of this beautiful, unbelievable man in front of him to memory, as though Newt would be the one spending the rest of his life without it. He let Thomas look, too, when he caught him staring. He let Thomas take his stolen glances, and deliberate brushes of skin, and comfortable silence. He let Thomas soak up as much of Newt as he could manage because it was the only thing he had to give.

If he was to die, at least let Thomas take as much time as he could to be happy, to hope. And maybe Newt was being selfish, maybe it wasn’t fair to let Thomas think that everything would be okay, but Newt didn’t know what happened to a person when they died. And if he was leaving this world then he was going to bring as many memories of Thomas with him, to have something to hold onto in the long dark.

There were moments, though, where he almost slipped. When Newt almost had himself convinced that he couldn’t let himself die, couldn’t accept the inevitable, without knowing the feel of Thomas’s lips on his, without knowing the _exact_ way Thomas’s eyes would shine when Newt told him how much he loved him. Yet he stopped himself every time, because he knew. He knew that to leave Thomas with that memory would destroy him—to know what it felt like, only to have it ripped away. So he didn’t. He bit his tongue so hard that it almost drowned out the pain beating in his arm, and he used the image of Thomas as a shield against the fog that tried to cloud his brain.

 

 

Alby.

Winston.

Chuck.

Thomas.

Alby.

Winston.

Chuck.

Thomas.

Alby.

Winston.

Chuck.

Thomas.

Thomas.

_Tommy._

 

 

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. Of all people why did it have to be _him_ to catch this bloody virus? To feel it rotting his brain away inch by bloody inch. Always itching, always gnawing, always knock, knock, knocking on the back of his subconscious demanding to be let in. He’d been a good person! He’d come back from his moment of weakness! He’d fought the good fight, given _everything he had_ to the people around him—and this was the thanks he got? To be beaten down with the memory that when he was young and stupid he’d _asked for this_?! That because he’d once asked the die the universe was belatedly granting him his wish?

No. No this was Thomas’s fault, not his. Thomas for trusting Teresa, Teresa for betraying them, for selling Minho to WCKD. It was all Thomas’s fault that Newt was like this—if he hadn’t trusted her, if he had _listened_ then newt would never have been in that tunnel, Newt would be living and happy and he wouldn’t be _so goddamn angry—_

Newt punched the wall of the building they were walking past, but no one noticed. There was too much going on in the ruins of a city they’d found themselves in, they were all too focused on Thomas as he charged ahead, unthinking, into another stupid plan—

 _A plan to save Minho,_ a small thought fought to be heard. _He wants to save your friend, like he wants to save everybody. This is Thomas, Newt. Your Tommy._

The anger, hot and palpable, eased off a bit and he was able to think again. To focus past the fog. They had made it this far, Newt could hold on a little bit longer. He just needed more _time._

 

_~~“Dear Tommy,”~~ _

 

_~~“Thomas,”~~ _

__

_~~“Dear Thomas,~~ _

_~~I’m sorry I never told you that I love you.”~~ _

__

_~~“I love you.”~~ _

__

_~~“I’m sorry, mate. I’m so goddamn sorry.”~~ _

__

_~~“Thomas,~~ _

_~~This is the first letter that I’ve ever written, so I’m sorry if I’m horrible at it. I just don’t know what to say, or how to say it. Should I have told you how much I loved you? How much I need you? That the only reason I can pretend to have strength is because I know you’ll be there to back me up? I am so afraid, Tommy, I am so afraid to die, I don’t want to die, I’m not ready to go”~~ _

__

_~~“I wish I could have stopped it, I would give everything I have to keep myself from leaving you, after everything we’ve been through”~~ _

__

Newt balled up his latest attempt, threw it at the wall, and collapsed to the ground of the room he was in, stifling his sobs in the crook of his arm to try and keep from waking anyone. They couldn’t see him like this, red faced and snotty, surrounded by piles and piles of the crumpled papers that marked his attempts at saying goodbye. He couldn’t get any of them right. Not a single one. Because all he wanted to do was tell Thomas how much he loved him, but how could be write those words down on paper for Thomas to read, when Newt had never done him the honor of voicing them himself? Could he curse Thomas with lying there awake each night, trying to imagine how Newt’s voice would curl around the words, how he might have sounded when it was said? No, no he couldn’t do that to him. This letter was to say goodbye, to set him free, to let him know that he was going to be okay, that Newt would be waiting for him on the other side. But nothing was strong enough, and he was running out of time.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was never supposed to be like this. Newt looked down at the piece of paper before him- there was only one left. He only had one more chance to do this, to get it right, to say everything that needed saying. One more chance. With shuddering breaths, Newt pulled himself together. Dawn would break soon, the start of another day, and he didn’t want to be interrupted for this. His hand shook so badly holding that pen that he worried Thomas wouldn’t be able to read his handwriting, but it would have to do. His heart sliding into a black abyss, Newt began to write:

 

_“Dear Thomas,_

_This is the first letter I can remember writing. Obviously I don’t know if I wrote any before the maze, but even if it’s not my first it’s likely to be my last. I want you to know that I’m not scared. Well, not of dying anyway. It’s more forgetting, it’s losing myself to this virus, that’s what scares me. So every night I’ve been saying their names out loud, Alby, Winston, Chuck, and I just repeat them over and over like a prayer and it all comes flooding back._

_Just the little things, like the way the sun use to hit the Glade at the perfect moment right before it hit the walls. And I remember the taste of Frypan’s stew- I never thought I’d miss that stuff so much._

_And I remember you._

_I remember the first time you came up in the box, just a scared little Greenie who couldn’t even remember his own name. But from that moment you ran into the Maze, I knew I would follow you anywhere, and I have. We all have._

_If I could do it all over again, I would, and I wouldn’t change a thing. And my hope for you is that when you’re looking back years from now, you’ll be able to say the same. The future’s in your hands now, Tommy, and I know you’ll find a way to do what’s right. You always have. Take care of everyone for me, and take care of yourself. You deserve to be happy._

_Thank you for being my friend._

_Goodbye mate,_

_Newt.”_

It took him three tries, but eventually Newt was able to roll his letter up into his necklace with trembling fingers. He was just proud that none of his tears found their way onto the ink to blur it.

 

 

**_“DON’T LIE TO ME!”_ **

****

****

It was all fuzzy, life only coming through in patches of adrenaline blurred by blood and smoke and fear. Of a moment of joy at seeing Minho again—of a moment where he felt like he was flying through the air, that his life had managed to come full circle before it ended. Except for instead of jumping in order to die, Newt was jumping to _live._ To live for a few moments more, to take everything he could from this life before it was all ripped away from him. His last clear, perfect, memory, was of Thomas emerging from the water, with a smile on his face—triumph. And for a moment, Newt allowed himself to hope.

 

 

_“ **Take it!”**_

****

****

_“Please, Tommy, Please.”_

He needed him to take the letter, he needed it, it was all Newt had, it was his last goodbye, god he didn’t want to go he didn’t want to die he didn’t want to leave him _please, God, if you’re out there if you’re listening **please don’t let it end like this.**_

**_Anything, anything but this._ **

****

****

****

****

The last thing Newt saw was Tommy's eyes, and although he knew that they were widened with terror and loss, Newt saw only the way those eyes looked in the firelight of the Glade. Shining with joy, and mischief, and curiosity—with life, and the promise that if Newt were to live it with him, he’d be able to share in all of those things, too. Newt smiled at the sight and he let himself fall, only to rise again in a world full of water, and a window down into another world.

A window where he could watch, could wait, until it was time for his Tommy to join him.


End file.
